Schenectady
by hophophop
Summary: "Schenectady is the next stop, Watson." She didn't respond. "Fine," he pouted, and the train lurched, planting his pursed lips on her temple and rocking them both against the windows and rebounding into each other. Genre: Fake marriage


**A/N:** FYI, Archive of Our Own (ao3 dot org) is my main fic site now, and I no longer double-post everything over here. Thanks so much to everyone who's faved, followed, reviewed, and read my work at fanfiction dot net. I hope you'll check out Elementary fic on AO3 if you don't already.

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_"I'm telling you, you should never have entered into the charade that is wedded matrimony."_

* * *

"It's a Mohawk word."

"No, it's based on one but the Dutch colonists messed it up. I can read Wikipedia too, Sherlock."

"Arent."

"I am not calling you Arent von Curler, and I'm not Mrs von Curler and we're not the only ones who read Wikipedia. If you want to test _that_ theory, don't do it on a case."

"You're very bossy today, Watson."

"Helen."

"Helen, I'm feeling henpecked."

"You're going to feel bludgeoned." She shifted her feet as the train swayed, trying to find her balance. The line ahead for the tiny dining car counter hadn't moved in five minutes. "I should have brought my thermos, and then I'd have caffeine _and_ something to bludgeon you with."

"Where is all this aggression coming from…_Helen_? I deduced you had it in you, of course, but it's rarely on display to this extent."

"Hmm, let's see. Being woken up by firecrackers set off outside my door—"

"I didn't cross the threshold without permission, per our agreement."

"Having to lie to my landlord again about having no idea why I was targeted by 'vandals,' AGAIN."

"That's your own doing; your previous property manager would have had no problem whatsoever with the little hoodlum's antics."

"Being rushed out of my home without so much as a gulp of coffee. Being the victim of credit card fraud—"

"It's our corporate account!"

"You spent 50% more on business class seats which may give _you_ more leg room but just put the stupid little tray too far out of reach for me. And it's the credit card I've had since med school, and we are _not_ having the conversation about the evils of the financial system and your hydra-like hypocrisy around that."

"I knew it! You did go to the movies instead of Fresh Kills to check the transfer station logs."

"It was Staten Island for god's sake. It was a wild goose chase. It was raining, and it was Oren's birthday, and I hadn't been to the movies in a _year_." Her stomach growled, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "If you figured that out, it sounds like I wasn't the only one to play hooky for a couple of hours."

"Hardly. Spoilers abound. But I accept your apology for being so lackadaisical."

She started to snap a reply when the tinny, barely audible audio system announced that the cafe car was now closed until after the train left Albany. "Honey," she said, and he froze, as if she wouldn't be able to see him if he didn't move. "You're going to take that five-minute 'smoke' break when the train stops and find me the best coffee in Albany." They pushed through the other people who had been waiting in front of them to get back to their seats in business class car behind.

"Schenectady is the next stop, Watson." She didn't respond.

"Fine," he pouted, and the train lurched, planting his pursed lips on her temple and rocking them both against the windows and rebounding into each other. One of his feet landed heavily on hers.

"Ow!" She pushed him off and then grabbed his shirt to pull him back before he could crash into the elderly couple trying to pass them. "Sorry!" The train lurched again, and he fell forward, pushing her against the windows again. The woman chuckled, one hand on the far wall and one on her partner's arm.

"You two looking for the dancing car? The trick is in the knees. Keep em' bent, they'll absorb the shocks."

Her partner smiled. "You give the same advice for everything, Helen."

Sherlock braced himself upright and beamed, at the opportunity to change the subject, Watson imagined. "My wife's name is Helen, too."

The other woman looked at her Helen and smiled fondly. "What a coincidence. I'm Toni."

He gave a little stomp of his feet in affected astonishment, and she stifled a groan for what was coming next.

"No! _I'm_ Tony!"

"Now Antoine, you know I hate that nickname. No offense," she hastily amended. "He was something of a player when he went by Tony. But that was barely the first week we met. He's reformed now, aren't you dear?" She squeezed his bicep as hard as she could.

"True, true, I no longer use that name on a regular basis. I do so enjoy coincidences, though." He nodded and nudged Watson forward. "Helen. Toni."

They were silent on the return to their seats. Watson pulled out a couple of ibuprofen tabs to stave off the caffeine headache. Sherlock absent-mindedly rubbed his upper arm until he suddenly shifted and felt around in his various pockets with both hands. He retrieved a battered paper-wrapped rectangle the size of a matchbook and offered it to her. She raised her eyebrows, waiting before she accepted it.

"Dark chocolate. I forgot I had it. Caffeine content might help."

She smiled and took it, a little dismayed at the way the wrapping disintegrated around the piece, which seemed otherwise intact and unscarred. She didn't ask how long it had been in his coat, and he didn't express indignation about her admittedly slight hesitation, and they both thought they might be getting the hang of this fake-marriage business.


End file.
